


Sarnalthmîn

by Bofur1



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: A+ Parenting, Acting, Ambidexterity, Anxiety, Bullying, Confusion, Defensiveness, Durin Family, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dyslexia, Dyslexic Dwalin, Emotionally Repressed, Eventual Happy Ending, Explanations, False Accusations, Family Secrets, Fear of Discovery, Fluff and Angst, Good Brother Dwalin, Good Writing, Hate Speech, Hiding in Plain Sight, Hope vs. Despair, Idols, Khuzdul, Mother-Son Relationship, Multi, Popularity, Power of Words, Pre-Smaug, Pride, Protective Siblings, Royalty, Runes, Superstition, Tenderness, That Hideous Strength, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:49:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5435402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Bofur1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Sarnalthmîn: "Cause to abuse"<em></em></em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <em>Many things are NOT wrong with the sons of Fundin, but they must unfairly learn that some Dwarves are superstitious to the point of paranoia and will resort to pain in order to "fulfill" their wild ideas.</em>
  </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This story coincides with madame_faust's headcanon that Dwalin is dyslexic. The full story about it can be read here: [Word Blindness](http://archiveofourown.org/works/710199?view_full_work=true)

_Hey, did you have to do this?_

_I was thinking that you could be trusted_

_Did you have to ruin what was shining? Now it's all rusted_

 

* * *

 

Many things were _not_ wrong with the sons of Fundin. They were healthy, strong, and full of cleverness and humor. There was a brightness about them that could only be contributed to one connected to the line of Durin and nearly everyone admired them for it and everything else they did, all their skills, quirks, and habits. Among friendly company, they were something like idols. That said, they remained modest, which only brought them more admiration.

By twenty-nine years, Dwarflings ought to know their runes and Khuzdûl by heart and even these two were no exception; especially not, for their mother Deallyra was even more so an idol than they were for her quilling. She was an author and Balin and Dwalin had standards to be like her.

Dwalin had trouble with words. He would mix the runes, scatter them across pages and pages of failure, frustrated beyond belief with his ‘word blindness’. Even so, jealous of others as he was, he couldn’t help but be proud of his brother, who could write effortlessly with _both_ hands. He’d never seen another Dwarf do that! On one of his better days, when he was calm enough to talk about it without bitterness, Dwalin mentioned Balin’s unique talent to their mother.

Deallyra paused in her own lettering, glancing at her younger son. “Can he now?” she asked mildly, hiding the panic that had started thumping away in her chest. “I’ve only ever seen him write with one hand.”

How she hoped Dwalin was wrong. She hoped he had made a mistake in his own longing to learn runes more easily, but of course she couldn’t say that.

“I’ve seen him write with both,” Dwalin insisted. “Here, he can show you! Balin!” Before Deallyra could stop him, he was already foraging through their home, searching for the one who could offer proof.

It wasn’t too long before Dwalin returned, dragging Balin by the wrist. Deallyra’s elder gave her an exasperated look to which she smiled, but the sick feeling was migrating to her stomach and making it hard not to leap to her feet and demand the truth.

“Ama doesn’t know you’re doubly-handed!” Dwalin was exclaiming as he tugged Balin toward a chair. “How could you not _show_ her?!”

“I never felt the need to, brother,” Balin replied, finally complying with Dwalin’s obvious wish and sinking down where Dwalin’s parchment, full of messy letters, sat on the table. Dwalin quickly flipped it over and gestured for him to take the quill nearby.

“C’mon, Balin! I want her to see I’m right!”

“What’s the point?” Balin started, but Deallyra interrupted.

“No, please do, darling,” she urged a bit hastily. “I want to see.”

Balin gave her a puzzled glance before picking up the wet quill. “What should I write?”

“Anything,” Deallyra assured him. _Please be wrong, please don’t be doubly-handed_ , she prayed as he bent over the paper, neat runes blackening it where his right hand guided the quill. She’d seen this often enough; she’d been the one guiding Balin to the high caliber of writing he had.

Mere seconds later, he showed her:

**_Balin, son of Fundin, is writing this_ **

Deallyra didn’t scold him for the lack of a period tailing his sentence, as he spoke before she could point it out, “I’m not done yet.”

Then he swapped hands and, to Deallyra’s growing disbelief, didn’t fumble or stray for an instant as he wrote with his left, finishing the sentence and showing her his work.

**_Balin, son of Fundin, is writing this with both hands._ **

Dwalin looked approvingly at what Balin had written, not taking the time for the grueling task of actually _reading_ it. Instead he nodded to whatever the ink held, folding his arms and smiling smugly at their mother. Laying aside the quill, Balin also fixed his gaze on her. Deallyra stood from her chair in front of the cold fireplace and approached the table, studied the runes. No pauses. No spills.

“You are…” she trailed off, noticing the growing hope in Balin’s tawny-brown eyes. He wanted her to be proud, that was obvious enough, and she couldn’t let him down.

“That’s a great thing,” she declared, looping an arm around his shoulders and squeezing hard, causing him to smile. “Your quilling will be better than ever! Do you think you could write two separate sentences simultaneously?” He stood to fetch a second quill at once, but she caught his shoulder before he could go.

“Ah, Balin…why _did_ you never tell or show me?”

Balin considered and then shrugged, flipping his hands over to scrutinize them as he remarked, “As I said to Dwalin, I never saw a reason to use my left hand, Ama—unless I need to catch up quickly on studies.”

“And we know how often _that_ happens,” Dwalin muttered, darkening only for a moment or two.

“Hmm. You needn’t use your lefty if you don’t feel like it, love,” Deallyra said in a breath, hoping he would take the hint without seeing what lay behind it.

“Why wouldn’t he?” Dwalin demanded, in some measure sarcastic, spreading his arms wide. “It’s a gift, is it not? He could outscribe the best, Ama!”

Proud as he was at Dwalin’s words, Balin shoved lightly at his brother’s arm, hissing, “Don’t insult her! She’s still got _the paddle_ hidden somewhere!”

Dwalin’s face lost a bit of color at the reference and Deallyra snatched at the moment. She brought herself to full stature, though Dwalin was already almost at eye-height with her. Almost. “Indeed, I do!” she agreed sternly. “And I am no slouch when it comes to writing, am I?”

“Of course not,” Dwalin exclaimed before taking off—no doubt to search the house thoroughly for her spanking tool, the bane of his childhood.

Balin laughed, sharing an amused look with his mother, after which Deallyra impulsively hugged him again. “You are a born scribe,” she whispered.

“Just as you are,” Balin countered simply.

 _Not_ quite _as I am, sweet boy_. She suppressed that potential answer and nodded, lightly kissing his nose. “Right. More penning tomorrow. Though you may not remember, you’re still in your twenties and you need your rest.”

Balin nodded and pulled away, fatigue seeping into his face as though on cue. “Aye. Goodnight, Ama.”

Deallyra’s smile faded once Balin was out of sight. Sinking into the chair at the table, she stared at his runes for a long time, long enough that the clatters of Dwalin’s hunting had ended, meaning he’d given up and gone to bed. Distantly she felt guilty for not tucking him in, but she was more preoccupied with trying to mentally still the ache in her stomach.

How had she never noticed? She was the mother, she was meant to know them like no other, and yet she had missed this. This, which was so important…so dangerous. She didn’t want to imagine what might happen if word got out about Balin’s ‘gift’. He might lose his closest friends for this!

She recalled his younger days, when he was a mere child. He’d been far more aggressive and had suffered when it came to patience and waiting to answer or react, but through much teaching from his family and a calming medicine applied, he had gradually been set free from his difficulties. Now he was thriving, which in itself was a good thing if one didn’t count the self-consciousness, jealousy, and attempted bullying from others.

But he was such a good lad. Should something so small (so big, her mind insisted) as being doubly-handed change his entire life? If he stuck to his right hand, everyone and everything could be spared.

She was startled out of her thoughts and let out a rather undignified squeal when a large hand settled on her shoulder.

“Are you going to leave the bed cold all night?” Fundin murmured, moving his hand from her shoulder to her hair, drawing it behind her neck so he lean down and see her.

It wasn’t a stretch for Deallyra to look at him, but she found herself unable to speak. Fundin’s eyes were very much like Balin’s, the same light-drinking brown, though a bit sharper. She swallowed, shaking her head in the negative but in the same motion snatching up the piece of paper and holding it out for him.

Fundin’s eyebrows and lips creased at the same time as he read the bold phrase. “Lyra—” he began cautiously, but she cut him off.

“I saw it, Fundin. I watched him ink it with right _and_ left.” In a mix of dismay and despair, she tugged at the edges of her beard, keening, “If anyone knows of this, he’ll suffer his entire life!”

“You’re not one to agonize, Lyra,” Fundin reminded her, deftly pulling her hands away from her beard before she wrenched it, keeping her fingers wedged between his own as he spoke with clear authority. “If anyone knows of this and should try to make him suffer…”

Just as Fundin’s eyes could absorb light, they could drive it away, darkening to the color of smoke-stained earth.

“…their efforts shall cost them.”


	2. Chapter 2

Balin wasn’t quite sure what to make of his mother’s attitude about his writing. She had never found it a struggle to be proud of what he wrote and he could see that she still _was_ proud of his skill. It was the between times that he could see—when she was watching him do his work, her gaze dim but intense, seeming very focused on what he was doing.

It was a bit disconcerting, if he was to be honest. Nonetheless he would show her what she had been inspecting all along and she would congratulate him, just the same as always. He would accept her praise and move on to the next assignment.

 _This is a routine now, a performance_ , he decided.

The enactment went on for about a month and a half, lingering in the back of his mind, urging him to find out why it was a little less genuine than before. He was writing nearly every day now; most of his studies were migrating in the direction of scribing. His teachers knew that was where his passion had gone and he appreciated their thoughtfulness, giving him assignments to study the Dwarves’ history and write about it.

Today, though, he was distracted. Ama had been spying on his penmanship again, surreptitiously—or so she thought. In return he’d been watching her and testily he’d made a move as though to switch the quill to his left hand. He hadn’t, of course, but with his motion she had gone still and stiff, eyes sparking for a brief instant before Balin made a show of pausing and then ‘deciding against it’.

He’d seen fear in her and without fail that set off fear in him.

“Is something wrong?” a low voice by his ear questioned. “You need to get back to your writing.”

Balin looked up to his teacher, Master Muran, and nodded vigorously. “Aye, sir,” he answered back, snatching up his quill with the nearest hand and delving back into his essay of the seven Dwarven Rings. Thus he didn’t notice his master start to move away and then do a double-take, his mouth opening in wordless amazement as Balin composed with immaculate leftward characters.

After a struggle, Muran clamped his mouth and eyes tightly shut. He wouldn’t fall into the same rut as others. All the time Balin had spent in his class, he’d been an honest, hard worker. He wasn’t what some might think. Pressing this fact into belief, Muran pivoted away.

“Thaldus, focus on your tome,” he instructed the student adjacent to Balin, whose customary frown deepened before he hid his face in his book. Satisfied, Muran returned to the front of the classroom.

Balin finished his paper not much later, laying down his quill on the left side of his desk. It was then that he realized what he’d done and was rather bewildered by it. Was he becoming more accustomed to writing with his left than his right now? he wondered, rubbing at ink stains on his palms. This contemplation didn’t last long, as a folded piece of paper came down on his desk, though he wasn’t sure which direction it came from.

Rarely did he ever accept notes from other students; he was often too busy working, but since his composition was complete, he thought he might make an exception. He glanced at Master Muran, relieved to see he wasn’t watching, and unfolded the note, biting back a gasp.

The first thing he noticed was that it was a page ripped out of a tome he’d already finished, which meant one of those students still behind in their studies had delivered it. What he was concerned with, however, was the dark, splotched writing overtop of the printed text:

**_TWO-FACE!_ **

Biting his lip at a near-tangible sting to his heart, Balin hurriedly refolded it and slid it underneath his essay, scanning the students closest. All seemed preoccupied with their books, so who could have written this? Why would they want to?

He was still pondering this during lunch as he noticed some of his classmates peeking over at him. As soon as he would turn to address them, they’d look somewhere else as if he weren’t there. Even Lonilli wouldn’t look up from her plate when he called her name.

This hurt almost more than the note, but more than the hurt he was confused. Under normal circumstances, Lonilli had no qualms about expressing her… _interest_ in him. She’d made her affections quite clear on many occasions and now here she was, ignoring him. Balin also knew she was a talker, however, and he decided to sit across from her anyway. Perhaps he could get some answers.

“Are you writing an essay on the Dwarven Rings, as I am?” he asked, keeping his voice pleasant, unthreatening. _Why do I need to? Why would she feel threatened around me?_

“No,” she mumbled, still not looking up. “You’re, um, you’re further along in the class than most of us, Balin.”

Balin paused, leaning over his plate slightly, trying to catch her eyes. “What are you working on? Maybe I could help.”

“I don’t want any help from you, thanks,” she burst out, finally jerking her head up to stare at him. Balin blinked several times, astonished to find fear in her face, similar to what he’d seen in his mother.

“Why not?” he asked bluntly.

“Because you—you think you’re better than me!” Lonilli snapped, abruptly taking on anger, her voice rising so other students looked over.

“I’ve never thought that!” Balin protested. “And you know it. What’s going on? Why would you think—?”

“Just leave me alone,” Lonilli commanded, rising to her feet so quickly she upset the bench she sat on. “You’re a swindler!”

Balin followed her example, leaping to his feet. Dwalin said he had a hint of magic about him which he only used when he wanted to instill a sense of his power into others. If Dwalin were here, Balin had a feeling he’d be saying it now as he glared at the girl.

“I’m nothing of the sort and you’ve _never_ believed it! Aren’t you the same girl who asked me to braid your hair before the Durin’s Day festival?!”

A collective shushing of gasps and whispers rose like dust around them at this news. Balin knew it had been a low blow, but he simply had to know what was going on, why they were all treating him this way!

“I never said that,” Lonilli gasped out, sounding pained to say it as she peeked nervously at the crowd. “I never asked that.”

“You did!” Balin insisted.

“He’s lying!” Lonilli cried, scrambling around the upset bench as though to huddle behind it for a shield.

“Of course he is,” Thaldus agreed, shoving his way through the group. “He’s a swindler, just as Lonilli said! A casuist! A two-face!”

“ _You_ ,” Balin spat, recognizing the phrase in an instant. “You threw that note at me.”

“What note?” Thaldus asked far too innocently, a smirk bordering his mouth behind his beard.

Even as his face flamed, Balin ground out through clenched teeth, “The one which used the same terminology for me that you just did.”

“Wasn’t me,” Thaldus lied, blatant and uncaring. “But whoever it was, he knew what he was talking about.”

“No, he didn’t! None of you do!” a strident voice cut in. Balin glanced to his left to see a mop of reddish-brown hair cutting through the group like a newly-sharpened axe through a tree branch.

Here was another Dwarf renowned among them, not as much for his mind—though no one doubted he had a brilliant one—as for his muscle. Even Balin had at times been unnerved by Dori’s mysterious strength, but now he could only be relieved. There was little else his classmates admired more than physical power and Dori held the high rank for it. Now here he was, defending him.

“What in Durin’s name are you doing?” Dori demanded, standing at Balin’s side and directing his penetrating gaze at Lonilli and Thaldus. “Lonilli, I’ve seen you every day of the schoolyear. You can barely keep your eyes off this Dwarf here when you’re in the same room and _don’t_ try to deny it or you’ll be the two-face. And _you_.” His glower deepened at Thaldus. “What gives you the irresistible urge to slander good people? You’ve done it before but I don’t see a cause to abuse here!”

Lonilli ducked her head and said nothing, but Thaldus tilted his head with a wicked sneer. “You want to know my cause? I’ll tell you: Balin is doubly-handed!”

Dori startled, all righteous anger draining out of his frame. “He…is doubly-handed,” he echoed, sounding uneasy.

Balin looked between them in dismay. “How is that a bad thing?” he asked desperately. He had always hated the sensation of ignorance and now that feeling was near stifling. At the very least he was glad to see others glancing at each other, just as mystified as he was, but those were few and far between the rest, who had all fixated on him with varying degrees of incredulity and distrust.

Thaldus didn’t bother to respond, too taken up in staring down Dori. “And as for my slandering ‘good people’, they all deserve it—Balin…and _your brother_ …”

Almost before he’d finished the second syllable of ‘brother’, Dori had vaulted over the table and taken him to the ground. Balin followed suit, sweeping Lonilli away from the mostly one-sided brawl before she was hurt. As soon as she was out of range, she shrugged him off, rubbing her arms where he’d touched her.

Balin pursed his lips, inclining his head slightly and muttering, “At your service, then.” Thus he took his leave, seizing his food for which he wouldn’t have the stomach and his book which concealed the slurring note. He didn’t bother wondering how they were going to separate Dori from Thaldus; when it came to brother blood, there wasn’t much that could stop it.

It was later that evening when he discovered that for himself.

“Balin!” Dwalin called furiously, several times, as he stormed into Balin’s room with a crumpled page in his fist. “Who did this to you?”

“Nothing has been done to me,” Balin quietly addressed the floor, steeling himself. Sure enough, Dwalin’s hands gripped his shoulders briefly before patting down the length of his arms, testing Balin’s words.

“Not physically,” Dwalin relented when he was satisfied his brother was whole, “but this—this note—”

“How did you read it?” Balin asked skeptically.

Dwalin sighed harshly through his teeth, stepping back and folding his arms. “I didn’t.”

That had to be a cue, Balin realized belatedly, tensing as Deallyra entered first, followed by Fundin, ducking the top of the doorframe. Neither of their parents spoke for a long minute or two and then Balin looked to his father. Somehow he felt he could trust him to answer outright, since Ama had been the one to act natural all this time.

“What’s wrong with being doubly-handed?” His voice was smaller than he’d tried for, so he pressed his lips together and lowered his contemplation to his hands, folded unassumingly in his lap.

“Nothing,” Fundin said gruffly. Balin could tell he’d not managed the tone he had wanted either; his tone was softer as he continued. “Some are superstitious about such things, so they try to drive away anyone who ‘fulfills’ their lunatic ideas.”

“We’re Dwarves!” Balin cried at last, pure consternation taking over. “We’re _supposed_ to use both hands, are we not? Our Maker, he surely didn’t forge us with one hand, did he?”

“Exactly right,” Fundin agreed confidently, coming to sit on the edge of Balin’s bed and ignoring the way it creaked under his size.

“But there are myths that likely stemmed out of jealousy,” Deallyra admitted, catching her elder’s attention. “There are those that say Dwarves who are _ambidextrous_ —” Her brow furrowed as she sounded out the unfamiliar Mannish word, “—because they’re doubly-handed, they’re double-crossers. Doubly-handed Dwarves may be skillful in whatever craft they choose, but no one will _trust_ them.”

All his questions answered, Balin slumped against his headboard. “I—I’m sorry,” he murmured. “If I could give up this _gift_ to spare you, I would.” Now he could understand to a degree what Dwalin had gone through, feeling ashamed of his word blindness all those years.

“Here now,” Fundin started, tilting his chin up. “Though you do a fine job caring for us—particularly your brother—you should know by now that we can take care of ourselves. Let us deal with these Goblins’ parents, who’ve influenced them to act like this. Time you worried about yourself for once.”

“Oh, I am,” Balin assured him glumly, his sadness beyond his years just like his wisdom. Fundin was about to blunder through another protest—what he’d say, he didn’t know—but Dwalin interrupted.

“Balin, there’s something you can do about your hands for me,” he announced self-assuredly.

Balin glanced at him hesitantly, holding out one of the offending extremities. “What is it?”

Dwalin frowned lightly, taking his brother’s hand. “You can go to school tomorrow and when someone calls you a double-crosser or a two-face or anything like, you can curl your fingers in like this…and _punch them_.”

Balin’s eyes flickered between the determined faces around him and his fist, held by Dwalin. “I…suppose that’ll do it,” he admitted, mouth twitching until he was nearly smiling. “Though I’ve also got this one.” And he held out the second hand for Dwalin to fold.

“And you’ll use that one just as well,” his brother declared proudly, grinning and bumping heads with him.

 

* * *

 

_Your faith shone like a beacon_

_Lighting up a lonely sea_

_No, I never gave it up cos you believed in me_


End file.
